


my rose garden dreams (set on fire by fiends)

by starrytobios



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Hanahaki Disease, Implied Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, M/M, Miya Atsumu-centric, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrytobios/pseuds/starrytobios
Summary: Atsumu’s favourite flower is the rose that is Iwaizumi Hajime.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	my rose garden dreams (set on fire by fiends)

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this while listening to cherry by lana del ray so that’s why she inspired the title

_“Darlin', darlin', darlin'_  
_I fall to pieces when I'm with you, I fall to pieces.”_  
  


Love.

Real love, Atsumu imagines, must be something like this. Something like the colour red, like the carmine of his national team jersey that Hajime loves so much, like the scarlet that clouds his vision when they are alone, like the cerise of rose-petal patterns bit into Hajime’s skin by his teeth. Incisors hellbent on nurturing soil containing seeds of his love, already planted into his flesh via the dragging of his tongue and the pressing of his lips against his lover’s shoulders, his neck, his thighs, his everything. His everything, presented for him.

It has to feel like this. Because Atsumu is sure that this is real love. He wants it to be so desperately, wants the thorny vines slowly slashing his skin to mean something, wants the parted petals of Hajime’s lips to stay, to keep blooming to murmur his name, even when spring dies, taking her flowers with her. He hopes that his love is enough to get his precious garden through the winter, enough to keep his favourite rose alive.

Enough for Hajime to still want him.

Love, is it real love?

Atsumu hates the doubts – the pests biting holes into the leaves of his adoration. The swarm of locusts here to devour the fields of his devotion.

There is no cure for insects like these; ones that bury themselves deep within the arboretum of Atsumu’s heart. Deeper still when they gnaw into the roots that are his heartstrings, mouths dripping with the viscous nectar that is his blood, honeyed by dulcet emotions – adulation and unadulterated contentment. They contaminate it with their fragility, spores of infectious apprehension painting unsuspecting leaves in their dreaded mosaic pattern.

It is a deep-rooted disease, one that cannot be torn out from the grounds of his garden, not even by Hajime. Though Atsumu never makes him try, because it is not Hajime’s place; he is the one thing he has to shield from this plague, after all, he is Atsumu’s most precious flower. A recherché rose, kept right in the centre of his heart.

His to love and cherish and admire.

Even when the flowers that Atsumu cultivated so lovingly begin to turn against him.

Atsumu didn’t expect it. Didn’t expect to have this searing pain in his chest where roots have taken place, curling around his ribcage, trying to pry it apart. He stumbles groggily through the bathroom, coming to a sudden halt at the sink, the wet ceramic cold against his palms. His eyes are red, and not like the gorgeous type of red that only comes forth when Hajime’s hands are on him, not the gentle roseate that lines his cheeks when Hajime whispers sweet nothings before they sleep. No, this is a bloodshot vermillion, like blood seeping from an unattended wound.

His bronzed skin is littered in marks, amaranthine petals dotted down his neck and cherry-coloured indents bitten into it. Swollen lips part to give way to an ugly sound, a cough that forces dewdrops from his eyes as he doubles over, unable to explain the fire in his chest.

He has been feeling this tightening feeling for days on end, ever since they lost to Argentina and their obnoxious setter. That guy rubbed him the wrong way, no matter how often Tobio sang his praise or Ushijima claimed he was a dangerous rival or Hinata called him the Grand King. Everything about Oikawa Tooru makes Atsumu’s hair stand on end, and he wants to rush to close the doors of his garden, because he doesn’t appreciate the fleeting touches and lingering stares he shares with Hajime.

Atsumu snorts, he wasn’t all that pleased when Atsumu upped ‘Iwa-chan’ with ‘Haji-kun’. Atsumu on the other hand relished in the dirty look he got just as he caught Tooru off guard,

Another throaty cough cuts off his glee, filling his mouth with a metallic taste. Seedlings have sprouted in the lining of his throat, inflaming everything they touch.

What the fuck is happening to him?

Did the loss really take such a harsh toll on his body?

A little voice in the back of his head helpfully reminds him that the touches and stares were not so one sided and he lurches forwards, bile rising as he tries to throw up this thought. Anything to get it out of his system; anything to kill the swarm of wasps picking at his pollen, stinging through the defences of his skin, bound to destroy the garden he worked so fucking hard on.

Maybe it's not the loss. Maybe he’s known that for a long time. And maybe he’s tried to bury it deep within the soil, only to have it corrupt every plant he grew so lovingly with its corrosive nature.

Maybe Hajime won’t ever stop looking through him.

Atsumu hacks harshly, pulling his palm away as the stinging of what he assumes is more bile or hell, sick, scorches the back of his throat. But what he is met with is one hundred times worse.

Against his palm, splatters of scarlet colour the soil of his skin, blood painting over petals from his favorite flower. Bloodied roses spill from his lips and the only thing he can think is if Hajime ever fucking loved him at all. He wonders if he has always been a placeholder, a shadow of the man he was truly after.

The garden clawing its way from his lungs seems to suggest so, and the burning roses in his chest engulf the shattered remains of his heart.

_“My cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme_

_And all of my peaches (are ruined).”_

**Author's Note:**

> sorry that i only write clichés.
> 
> was trying to Feel Something and so i listened to too much lana and the neighbourhood and this happened.
> 
> twt: kaikxge


End file.
